Gone
by muffinlover18
Summary: Death the Kid falls from grace.


_A/N: I wrote this in like...less than two hours, with "Breathe Me" by Sia playing over and over and over and over xD (although I'm not sure I'd recommend listening to it while reading...)  
>I personally don't think it's all that fantastic, but I want to know what you all think.<br>__**Disclaimer: **__I do not own Kidd or Soul Eater or anything affiliated with it whatsoever xD (though I wish I could...)_

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><p>He gazed out at the fixed landscape, the unchanging desert stretching outward towards the horizon. A cold chill sweeps through his body, though he does not shiver.<p>

Somewhere, along the line, somewhere, during his intense need for perfection, everything had been lost and forgotten.

Abandoned and desiccated.

What he was staring at was no longer home. It was no longer a place he belonged, even if his position of power and reign tied him there forevermore. What seemed like eons ago—and probably was—he had strolled down these streets and slept under this city's starry heavens. He had once called it his home, where he went to at the end of any long day, with two blondes on either side of him.

Perhaps, perhaps, it was not anyone else who had led to this. Perhaps it had been his own demise all along. No one should be allowed into a point of such authority if they had problems like his. He had screwed the world over in his sorry attempts at making it into his view of perfection, when all along he had just been making things a tragedy.

Everyone he knew—everyone he used to know—was long gone. When did it happen? They had all slipped away without his notice or particular care, like assassins in the darkness, shrouded in the black, and vanishing without his concern. Only instead of them murdering him, it was _his_ knife in their chests.

He didn't mean it. But he wasn't sorry. He wasn't. He did not have any more emotions. He had lost all feeling; he was numb. Maybe, maybe, if those friends he had carelessly watched disappear were still by his side, he would be able to conjure a real smile, rather than an insanity-induced one. Or perhaps let out an amused chuckle in place of a mad, sinister laugh.

He was just… gone. Nothing was left of him, except for merely what he appeared to be. Cloaked in the wiry black, the all-too familiar white mask resting over his pale face, covering the stripes that wound all the way around his head. That was all he was now—just an empty shell. One would say he didn't even have a voice—he just silently reaped the souls of evil and innocent alike, an intense aura of madness surrounding him as he worked to create what he called beauty.

He looks down at his hands, uncovered by the white gloves, and for a moment, can remember the feeling of cool gunmetal resting in his palms. But then he forgets again and all he can see are the streams of scarlet trickling and falling from his fingertips.

He lifts his bloodstained hands to his face, as if to claw at it, and a smile lights up his handsome features. The smile itself is far from attractive, however, and twists his visage into something less demure and more like that of a demon praying on its dinner, watching as it struggles uselessly. A maniac laugh claws its way up his throat, escaping into the stagnant atmosphere.

Because wasn't that what he was now? He was nothing more than a crazed kishin, hungry for more power and fewer hindering emotions. Only one thing was static in his head, and that was his absolute crave for order.

_Order_. That was all he wanted. What was so bad about that? In the beginning, he had been certain that order was not something that could possibly be evil. It was not something malevolent, wicked, blasphemous. It was something that the world desperately needed, and he simply saw himself as the sole provider, the one to bring this essential order to the unbalanced world.

And so he took up this role upon his shoulders, leaving behind whatever he deemed burdensome. His friends, his father, his education, any morals that were pointless to him were abandoned as he surged forward on the path towards the his own destruction. Towards the world's destruction.

He disappeared into the world of insanity, never to return. Perhaps if he had at least once regretted his decision to take this path, this road to his and the world's broken downfall, had seen that what he was doing was not in fact the right thing to do, maybe he would've turned back. Seen the faces of his once-friends trying to save him from this pit of despair and agony.

But he was gone, trapped. Well beyond repair and never to be rescued. His own choices would lead to his own end, and he could not, would not go back on them. Even if he had somehow regained his once-sane senses—seen the error in his ways—he would've refused to turn away from his newfound practices. Because he had chosen to be there, and by no circumstances could he take back something, anything that would affect his life so dramatically. He would consider it the height of his own dishonor to take back a choice, any decision that he made, no matter the consequences that came with them.

All the regret and remorse in the world could've filled him and he would've never looked back.

Another cold chill crawls up his spine, and this time he shivers, letting loose another insane laugh as he slowly raises his arms above his head. And then, in one swift, deadly swing of an ebony scythe, befalls the entire world and him with it.

Blood pools in his frozen, manic smile.

Gone is the order. Gone is he. Gone is everything.


End file.
